by Kathy Reichs
“She did change her name and go underground,” I said.
“In today’s cyber age, it’s almost impossible to disappear completely.”
“Melanie’s file disappeared from the InovoVax system.”
“That it did,” Ryan agreed.
* * *
I walked toward a building with the letters HGP above the entrance. It was dark. A sense of dread overcame me. As I drew close, doors slowly opened. I tried to turn away, but an unseen force pulled me forward. I tumbled over the threshold and plummeted into a tunnel dark as a crypt. I screamed. No sound left my throat.
I lay encased in a shiny white tube, pinpoints of light twinkling around me. I couldn’t move my head. I reached up. My hands were bound at my sides.
“Don’t move,” a tinny voice commanded.
“Why?”
“You’ll ruin everything.”
“I want out.”
“You know too much.”
I struggled to free myself.
The tube’s lid flew open.
I was on a shore, squinting and blinking into bright sunlight. Waves crashed against a rocky cliff to my left, receded with a sinuous hissing into the sea to my right. Spotting an irregularity far up the beach, I began running toward it. With each step, the sand closed around my boots. Black boots. Army boots. I leaned into my stride and pumped my arms. My feet dug deeper, but I made no progress.
Hearing a scream, I looked up. A seabird glided on the wind overhead. I tracked its flight. Noticed a figure high up on the cliffside. Dressed like a monk in a long, hooded cape, the figure was painting graffiti. Its incomplete message stretched across three rocks. I read it.
Four letters. CRIS—
The monk’s head swiveled my way, the floppy hood concealing all but his eyes. His gaze raked me like a Death Star laser. The sand around my boots began to dissolve. I sank to my knees. My waist. My chest.
I stood beside a morgue cooler. The room was cold, and I was shivering. I opened a compartment. Lena Chalmers was on the gurney, her body naked and fully fleshed.
I heard a meow. Turned. Saw no cat.
A corpse lay on an autopsy table behind me. Though frightened, I felt compelled to approach. Took a step.
The corpse sat up. Melanie Chalmers. Her nose was gone, her body covered with festering lesions.
I took another step.
Melanie’s hand rose. Her fingers were blackened stumps. One pointed at me.
The finger, elongated and spiderlike, snagged my hair and pulled. I screamed and tried to bat it away.
A silhouette stood flanked by two intensely brilliant beams of light. Behind the silhouette, a wall. As I watched, the beams drew together and brightened even more, revealing the silhouette’s face.
Ryan!
The beams congealed into one impossibly white-hot oval on Ryan’s chest. He staggered back and was pinned to the wall. His face constricted in agony, and his hands clawed the air.
God. Oh, God, no!
I tried to run to Ryan. Was again fixed in place. I looked down. Water gurgled and eddied around my feet.
I called out.
A figure materialized beside Ryan, features oddly clear in the blinding glare.
Arlo Murray.
No! Goddammit, no!
I awoke to find Ryan restraining me with a palm to each shoulder, his features taut with concern.
“Wake up, cupcake.”
“Don’t call me that.” Mind still struggling to reconnect with the topside world.
“Feisty out the door.” Ryan’s face relaxed. “A good sign.”
“I must have been dreaming.”
“Ya think?” Ryan’s hair was wet, and he wore only a towel. “Nightmare on Elm Street?”
“It wasn’t Peter Cottontail’s tea party.”
“Don’t you mean the Mad Hatter?”
“They share the same guest list.” Though going for breezy, I still felt shaky.
Perching on the bed, Ryan took both my hands in his and kissed me lightly on the lips. “It wasn’t real.”
“I know. I think I was aware of that even as I was dreaming. It was just so vivid.”
Ryan gently brushed sweat-soaked hair from my face. Waited.
“A car was running you down, Ryan. Just like on Laurier.”
“And we saw how that went. I’m indestructible.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You want to talk about the rest?”
“Maybe later. Sorry to ruin your shower.”
“I’d just finished when I heard you shrieking.”
“I don’t shriek.”
“Birdie did a half gainer.” Ryan unwrapped the towel to dry his hair. “Stuck the landing nicely.”
“Are you trying to distract me?” I asked.
“How am I doing?”
“Hit the road, cowboy.”
“You’re sure?”
“Happy trails.”
I watched him dress in jeans, a long-sleeved waffle tee, leather jacket, and muffler. Moments later, the front door opened, then closed.
Ignoring the issues troubling my id, I yanked on a robe and headed to the kitchen for coffee.
Beyond the window wall, the sky was charcoal all the way to the horizon. Sleet pelted the glass with a steady tic-tic-tic.
I phoned the lab. Skippy damn! No bones requiring my discerning eye. I could cocoon for the day.
Birdie was already lying belly-up on the table, looking like taxidermy gone wrong. Or roadkill.
I’d just booted my Mac when a message bonged into my mailbox. Katy.
My daughter’s unit was heading out on a mission. She couldn’t give details. Of course, she couldn’t. Not comforting. She was well and looking forward to rotating home. A bit more reassuring.
I was typing a response when my phone did a little “A.M. Radio.”
I checked caller ID. Claudel.
In my hurry to answer, I upended my coffee. In one fluid move, the cat went vertical, flew from the tabletop, and shot from the room, leaving a trail of brown pawprints in his wake.
I cleaned up the mess, cursing the whole time, then called Claudel back.
“Detective Charbonneau has Docteur Murray under surveillance.”
“And?”
“He is not enjoying it.”
Claudel was in one of his moods. Pressing him would do no good.
“The subject rose at six this morning and went directly to InovoVax. He likes to drive very fast.”
“Did he do anything suspicious?” Unable to remain quiet.
“Before alighting, the gentleman poured a dark liquid onto the asphalt from the car’s open door.”
“The remains of his coffee.”
Claudel paused, to annoy or chastise me.
“Charbonneau observed a broken fog light above the Lexus’s right bumper and fresh paint on its left front panel.”
I felt my heart spiking.
“He also noted a windshield sticker indicating membership in the Royal St. Lawrence Yacht Club.”
“Holy freakin’ hell! Murray has a boat. Are you going to arrest him?”
“Based on what, Dr. Brennan? Poor auto maintenance and a fondness for sailing?”
“Melanie and Ella may have been dumped from a boat!”
“Or a bridge, a ramp, a dock, or a cliff.”
Claudel was right. I was overreacting. And making a gargantuan leap. I calmed my voice and dragged my thoughts back onto track.
“Didn’t SIJ collect paint chips at the bus stop on Laurier? Record skid marks? Get something to match to a suspect car?”
“As you may recall, the street was wet from the rain.”
“What now?”
“My partner will keep eyes on Murray. I’ll visit the Royal St. Lawrence in Dorval.”
“Back in 2006, Ryan canvassed every marina and yacht club within fifty miles of the spot the container washed ashore in Saint-Anicet.”
“I’m sure he did.”
Vislosky was “A.M. Ra
dio’s” next announcement.
She opened with, “You still got that book?”
“I—what?”
“The kid’s journal.”
“Harmony Boatwright’s diary?”
“Journal, diary. Whatever.”
Crap. I did.
“Yes.”
“I need it back in the file.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
Shit.
Before I could respond, Vislosky said, “You’re gonna like this.”
“What?”
“You ready?”
“Just say it.” After Claudel, I wasn’t in the mood for suspense.
“I found the hostel where Lena Chalamet and Harmony Boatwright crashed.”
“During their visit to Charleston?”
“No. I discovered they’d also done a Grand Canyon tour.”
Why was everyone around me turning into a comedian? “When did they stay in Charleston?”
“February of 2018.”
“That plays with the date in Harmony’s diary.”
“It surely does.”
“You plan to question the—”
“I surely do.”
I briefed Vislosky on Ryan’s background info on Melanie Chalmers and on the videotapes given to Lena by her great aunt, Florence Sorg. “The recordings were probably made by Lena’s mother.”
“Mélanie Chalamet, aka Melanie Chalmers.”
I nodded. Realized how pointless that was.
“Claudel just phoned me.”
“The Montreal detective who’s such a dick.”
I told Vislosky about Murray’s car and yacht club membership.
“But did this creep have access to boats when your vics vanished back in 2002?”
“I’m sure Claudel will query that.”
“If Murray is dirty, why would he wait so long, then kill again in Charleston?”
I had no answer to that.
“We’ve ID’d our vics, Tonia. Murray might be their killer, or he might not. Either way, we’re still clueless about motive. And about the link between Montreal and Charleston.”
“Gotta be the Chalamets.” Not remarking on my use of her first name.
“Lena was living on the streets when she got the videotapes from Sorg. I’m thinking she might have taken them with her when she went south.”
“And that they might still be stashed at that hostel.”
“They could nail our perp.”
“Or they could be videos of baby’s first steps.”
There was a very long stretch of very dead air.
“You still there?” I asked.
“I am.”
I thought about Nguyen’s case. The damn MRI. The tapes. Harmony Boatwright’s diary. It was time to migrate again.
“Can you hold off a day on the hostel?” I asked.
“How did I know that was coming?”
32
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 17
Early the next morning, I was winging my way south. Ignoring the howls of my cat. And the scowls of those around me.
I’d been apologetic until the lady beside me in 12E offered to chuck Bird down the loo and the guy in 12F agreed to help. After that, I ceased giving a shit.
Having risen well before dawn, I lacked the energy to attempt any serious work, so I sat back, closed my eyes, and let my mind go where it chose.
It chose the recent trip down nightmare alley.
My dreams fall into one of two categories. Either A, my subconscious is blocking me from completing some seemingly mundane task. Or B, the id boys are rehashing current events, often throwing in macabre twists of their own.
Tuesday night’s extravaganza had been a fragmented mirror-in-mirror fun-house affair with one scene cartwheeling crazily into the next. At least, that’s how I remembered it. Definitely a selection from drawer B. And rife with Freudian symbolism. Or not.
The army boots stemmed from my worry for Katy. The white tube reflected my lingering anxiety over the aneurysm. Or maybe it was simply a heads-up to schedule an MRI. Not sure the meaning of the tinny voice. I want out. You know too much. Sounded like dialogue from a cheesy spy novel.
HGP was Melanie Chalmers’s employer after she dropped out of Tufts and before moving to Canada. OK. Fair enough. Melanie and her kids were on my mind. That also explained Lena’s cameo in the morgue cooler and her mother’s solo on the autopsy table.
I grew drowsy.
Melanie’s lesions and eroded fingers? Perhaps a reference to capno? That was a stretch.
The cliff-climbing monk? Was he a monk? Why a monk? What was the meaning of his unfinished message? CRIS— Christ? Christopher? Melanie’s Christopher?
The plane lurched. My head bobbed, and I startled awake. Half awake. Undeterred by the turbulence, my sleepy mind drifted back to the dream.
The vignette with Ryan, though terrifying, was self-explanatory. But why the walk-on by Arlo Murray? Because the arrogant bastard is guilty, my lower centers tossed out.
Guilty of what? Murdering Melanie and her daughter? Maybe. But why? Jealousy over Christopher? Who the hell was Christopher?
Christopher.
CRISPR.
When spoken aloud, the words sound similar.
Suddenly, my subconscious was fully alert.
Had Sorg overheard Melanie and Murray arguing about CRISPR, not Christopher? The term’s presence in Melanie’s notes had puzzled Bangoboshe. What was its relevance to vaccine production?
The plane bucked again, and I was wide awake.
Before going to InovoVax, Murray worked at the Whitehead Institute at the MIT Center for Genome Research. I decided to have a quick look-see.
Reaching under the seat, I furtively teased my laptop from the shoulder bag snugged beside the cat carrier. Birdie woke and unleashed a new volley of thunderous protest. 12E gave an audible groan.
After ponying up for Gogo Inflight, I googled “Whitehead Institute” and started with Wikipedia. I know. But I was tired.
The outfit’s full name was the Whitehead Institute for Biomedical Research. A line halfway down the entry grabbed my attention. It cited the Center for Genome Research as the single largest contributor to the Human Genome Project.
I’m an eyeball person. Meaning my brain works best with visual input. Like the printed word.
The gray cells snapped a synapse.
HGP.
Human Genome Project.
Is that what Murray did at the Whitehead Institute? Did Melanie go there after dropping out at Tufts? Did she and Murray both work for the Human Genome Project? If so, was that fact significant?
Follow-up snap.
A couple of weeks back, I’d discussed the HGP with Ryan. Why? Right. Sullie Huger had worked there briefly. Probably no big deal. The project was massive, involving researchers from twenty institutions in six countries including France, Germany, Japan, China, the U.K., and the U.S.
MIT was in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Melanie was from Boston, and Tufts was in Medford, Massachusetts. Did Melanie stay close to home after leaving graduate school? If she had worked at the Whitehead, it would have been between 1991 and 2000. Did she overlap with Murray?
My fingers flew over the keys.
Just as we were ordered to close our devices, I found the answer.
* * *
After dropping Birdie at the annex, I went straight to the MCME.
The chap in the suitcase had been dead a very long time. His skull suggested South Asian ancestry. Tiny drill holes in his bones suggested a lengthy postmortem career as a teaching specimen. His journey to the dumpster would be a job for the cops.
I composed a brief report and headed out. While driving back to the annex, I phoned Vislosky.
“Yo.” Her usual.
“Murray lied.”
She took a moment to gear in, then, “Chalmers’s boss at InovoVax.”
“He claimed to barely know Melanie. But they were coworkers for eight years.”
“Where?”
“A lab at MIT.”
“Doing what?”
“Researching the human genome.” I explained the HGP. The Whitehead Institute.
“How do you know they were there at the same time?”
“I found Murray’s curriculum vitae online.”
“His what?”
“Academic résumé.”
“Thank the galloping Lord for egghead egos.” A pause, then, “You’re positive my older container vic is this Chalamet kid.”
“Lena.”
“Where are you?”
“Charlotte.”
“You’ve got four hours, then I hit that hostel. My plate’s full, and the chance of anything still being there is one in a million.”
I blew off scheduling the MRI.
* * *
The galloping Lord was kind, and traffic was light. By seven that evening I’d offloaded one ferociously peeved cat, set up his litter box, scribbled a note to Anne, and raced into downtown Charleston.
On the way to the hostel, Vislosky explained how she’d found it. Nothing special, just dogged perseverance and rad hair. She’d called almost every low-end hotel and B&B in the city. Then, bingo, a clerk remembered a kid with a spiky pink do.
Ten minutes after leaving headquarters, Vislosky pulled to the curb outside a three-story frame residence that had definitely seen better days. Perhaps during the Mesolithic era. Narrow along the street, the building ran deep into the lot, a classic Charleston design. Its yellow paint was faded and peeling. Its shutters, once white, were weathered and dingy gray. Some lacked slats; others hung at angles suggesting hinges well past their shelf lives.
As we took in detail grudgingly revealed by the block’s single streetlamp, the radio spit static.
A side yard bordered the home’s long south-facing wall. Once a garden, the space was now an overgrown tangle of nightshade, chickweed, foxtail, and wild cane.
Overlooking the jardin jungle was a second-story balcony enclosed in scrolly black wrought iron. A saggy porch ran below the balcony, two steps up from ground level.
An ornate wood and glass door sat midway along the porch, with a half-dozen ratty wicker chairs positioned helter-skelter to either side. Not terribly inviting, given the perpetual shadow cast by neglected magnolias and live oaks overhanging the property.
